Manhattan Chill
by Incog Ninja
Summary: While he's trying to crack that code, to rob that bank, before he goes to (hacker) rehab, Ray lays awake some nights—cold, lonely, and wishing he had a friend. Pre-movie, pre-Maya, but a little bit foreshadowy. Rated M for masturbation and dirty words.


**Reedus Fap Fest 2013 – Moscow Chill - Ray (Incog_Ninja)**

**AN: this fic is a nod to the line in the movie "I haven't done this in a while." Since the filmmakers chose to fade to black after that line, we didn't get to see what happened, so I've always said we need Moscow Chill fic. I won't be writing **_**that**_** scene, but I thought it would be interesting to see what Ray **_**had**_** done in a while. And this is a little bit Maya-inspired.**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable elements herein belong to their respective owners. All other elements belong to me.**

He's in the back of his van, stretched out on the makeshift bed, which is really just a sleeping bag and a couple of sheets. He has a pillow, though, and he slips his hand between the scratchy cotton of the cheap pillowcase and the smooth, cool nylon of the sleeping bag, propping up his head and thinking about the day he's had. It was long and disappointing and entirely nonproductive. He hates days like that, when he can't count one thing as a win in any way. At least he isn't in jail, but he spent the day chasing his tail with one fucking spaghetti code, to no avail, and he's still sleeping in the back of his non-converted van on a Wal-Mart sleeping bag and Iron Man sheets.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply—count sheep or whatever—but all he can see are numbers and the bullshit system's security through obscurity. He can't imagine delightfully woolen creatures prancing or hopping fences. He's probably got raster burn, but he doesn't want to think about that, either, because the need for a new monitor on top of a warm place to call his own is the last thing that will lull him into sleep.

He switches gears, and tries to think warm thoughts. Literally. Like hot tubs and saunas and that time he went to an after-party on the Upper West Side with that insane blonde, who called him "Troy" for five hours and gave him the best blowjob he'd ever had. Not that he'd had a lot of blowjobs in his life, before or since.

The memory of the leggy blonde temporarily derails his coding obsession and now he's thinking about smooth, bronze skin and silky hair, eager lips and hands, and he's hard.

He slides one hand down from where it rests on his chest, under the cover of the sleeping bag and sheet, over his abdomen, stopping at his belt buckle. He cups his dick through the loose, heavy fabric of his Levi's and squeezes. The sound that comes out of his mouth is a cross between a moan and a groan. He pictures the blonde's lips wrapped around him and he yanks open his belt and button and zipper in rapid succession.

His hand is cold in contrast to his hot, hard cock, but it's a welcome sensation, taking his breath away and searing his palm. He hisses and hesitates, closes his eyes and sees a clear night sky emerging from somewhere in the back of his mind. His body relaxes into the cold floor of the van and he pulls his hand out from under his pillow, drags it down his torso in a similar fashion as the other, except this one dips up under his shirt to brush and pull at his nipple.

He recalls the night with the blonde on that rooftop without any sort of clarity. The images in his mind morph, as his body warms with pleasure. He thinks about threading his fingers through chestnut waves, instead of golden silk. Her skin is pale and creamy, instead of kissed by the sun. Her eyes are almost black, instead of blue.

His grip tightens and his strokes pick up speed. He twists his wrist at the head then pulls the precum down over his length, imagining that he's on top of and inside the nameless brunette with the plump, red lips. He imagines her smiling as he easily slides in and out of her because she's so turned on and tuned in.

He's got both hands in his pants now, pushing and pulling them more open, and he imagines the quiet, smiling girl getting a little bit loud. She says his name—no, she _breathes_ it. He rolls his balls in his fingers and squeezes his cock, and he can almost feel her hot breath against his neck. He keeps his eyes shut tight and slams his fist down and down again, straining in his mind to hear her voice and feel her under him, her legs lovingly wrap around his hips as she bucks upward and whimpers.

##

It's become a habit of his, to think about his fabricated girl and to touch himself and come. He's even got a bottle of lube that he keeps close at all times. He hasn't named her, but he knows her well. She's beautiful and sweet, smart and kind. She might be a little tough, but he likes making her soft; she likes being soft for him, too, or so he imagines.

There's a cot in the dry storage of the restaurant where he's been washing dishes in exchange for a place to sleep and a meal here and there. It won't last long, he knows, but at least he isn't sleeping in his freezing cold van in January. He takes advantage of the rare privacy, the quiet of the empty restaurant, to push his hands past the waist of his cargo pants. He's been half-hard all day, remembering the last time he thought about her in the bathroom of that train station, where he tried to sleep for a few hours. A security guard kicked him out before he could even come. He reignites that fantasy; it was a good one.

He burrows into the thin mattress of the cot, thinking about burrowing into a plush club chair. He pictures her smiling up at him from where she's kneeling between his feet. He uses his hands, soft and easy, to mimic the way she would touch him, if she were real. Trailing his fingers over his hardness, teasing himself, and grinning at the smile on her beautiful face.

Then she dips her head. She swirls her tongue around his tip and he sighs, his head rolling from side to side. She gently sucks and bobs her head. She kisses him from tip to base and back again. She gets him nice and wet.

"I want to come in your mouth," he whispers into the dark empty storage room. "Will you let me?" In his mind, she swirls her tongue around and around, never breaking eye contact, and she nods.

"Be a good girl and take it all," he says, slowly gliding his fist all the way to the base and twisting, covering the head with his other hand, thinking about bumping the back of her throat. "Baby, you're so good to me."

He keeps himself completely wrapped in the warmth and artificial wetness of his hands. In his mind, she moans and he feels the vibration all the way to his toes. In his mind, he pushes forward so far that he slides down her throat. She doesn't gag, though, because it's all in his mind; she takes it like a pro.

He pictures her again—red, pouty lips sliding over his hard cock, cheeks hollowed and flushed, eyes sparkling, one hand holding him steady and the other between her own legs, her fingers buried inside herself—and that's all it takes for him to blow. He comes with a shout, and it's messy, and he doesn't give one fucking shit because in his mind, she swallows every last drop.

He'll have to hit the laundromat tomorrow, but tonight he'll sleep like a baby. He wipes his hands on the towel under his cot and cleans himself as best he can, then pulls his pants up and barely gets them buttoned before he falls into a deep sleep, dreaming another kind of dream about his girl—about a beach and sunshine and warm breezes that last for days. Maybe someday he'll find her.


End file.
